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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26683630">Dust, Rust, and Deliverance</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/VioletBlue/pseuds/VioletBlue'>VioletBlue</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Teen Wolf (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, But he learns, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Physical Abuse, Recovery, Sexual Abuse, Slavery, Stiles is naive, oh does he learn</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 03:27:36</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,201</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26683630</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/VioletBlue/pseuds/VioletBlue</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles, against the better judgment of his rational thinking skills and his wallet, decides to buy a slave he almost trips over chained to the outside of a McDonald’s. Completely out of his depth, Stiles brings Scott to the Beacon Hills Center for Young Adult Slave Rehabilitation and Advancement, which will introduce this sheltered cop’s kid to a world of covert missions, radical reform ideas, and a burly, surly ex-slave counselor named Derek Hale.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Scott McCall &amp; Stiles Stilinski</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>108</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Hi! So this is my first time writing for the Teen Wolf fandom, but lately I've been writing hurt/comfort like it's my day job so we'll see how this goes. </p><p>In this story, I've decided to make lycanthropy genetic, rather than being bitten: so all the werewolf characters have been enslaved for generations. Hope that makes sense.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It all started because Stiles really had to pee. </p><p>Like, really, really had to pee. It was a long road trip back to California, and Stiles wasn’t even planning on stopping until hour six. But after a few Diet Cokes too many, his bladder had decidedly different priorities. That’s why he decided to pull off at that seedy highway rest stop, just a dilapidated gas station and a grimy McDonald’s, the flickering neon sign the only beacon of civilization in the endless Nevada desert. </p><p>That’s why after he peed, bought yet another Coke, and filled up the tank of his Jeep, he decided to just grab a hamburger here and try to make it home by nightfall. </p><p>And that’s why, walking up towards the McDonald’s, trying to rub the fatigue out of his eyes and stifle a yawn, he almost tripped over the kid chained to the stairs by the entrance. </p><p>Stiles yelped and took a step back, his heart pounding. Oh. Fuck. Slave kid. This really was a sketchy place. </p><p>“Um, hi, sorry,” Stiles mumbled, carefully giving a wider birth to the kid’s gangly limbs. He was thin, with messy dark hair and bags under his eyes. His arms were looped around the staircase railing post, hands resting on his chest in shackles. He was awkwardly sprawled across the stairs, apparently trying to sleep even though Stiles had never seen a place look less comfortable. </p><p>He didn’t open his eyes when Stiles shuffled past. </p><p>Werewolf slavery was a contentious issue. Some states legalized it, some didn’t. There were impassioned think pieces in the papers almost every week on both sides… the economic argument. The moral argument. The safety argument… who knew what these creatures were capable of without the hormone implants and hard work to keep them sedated and wolf-free, blah blah blah.</p><p>Personally, Stiles thought slavery was bullshit. Any idiot could see all that anti-wolf propaganda was just bigotry driven by economics. </p><p>But Stiles had never actually interacted much with slaves. Slavery was illegal in California, although not very well enforced. Stiles had half-heartedly gone to a few protest marches in college to try to impress this really cute girl, and he had been pretty shocked by the statistics of how much under-the-table labor really went on. But then he got busy with classes, and then his dad got sick, and then there was the estate to sort out and… well, those few years after his dad’s passing had gone by in a haze of numb unreality. He hadn’t had enough energy to take care of himself, much less campaign for slave rights. </p><p>Stiles ordered his burger and fries on autopilot, his stomach heavy. He took a seat by the window, rolling his head to try to get the tension out his neck. When he looked up he realized he had a perfect view of the kid out the window. Shit. This was not a relaxing environment in which to eat a burger. </p><p>There were new people coming in now, a mother with her young daughter. The little girl had some kind of difficulty walking… she was leaning on her mother and there were braces on her legs. </p><p>The kid outside seemed to notice, and tried to scoot himself out of the way as much as possible, as difficult as that was with his arms looped around the railing post. The mom didn’t seem to notice, sweeping through the door without a backward glance. </p><p>For some reason that little moment of kindness - that the kid would worry about being in the way when he was literally chained in place - made Stiles lose his appetite entirely. </p><p>Maybe he should just move on. It was a long way still before he got home, and this whole situation was giving him a weird, sinking feeling. </p><p>He tried to take a bite of his burger, but it tasted like cardboard pulp. Had McDonald’s always been this shitty?</p><p>There was a burst of loud, raucous laughter from a couple tables over from him. Two older, redneck-looking guys, with Carhartt jackets and heavy boots and the smell of cigarette smoke even from here. One of them stood up and stretched, grabbing a thin foil-wrapped burger from the table. </p><p>“Feeding time,” he said to his companion, throwing a fry in his mouth. He caught Stiles’ eye as he walked towards the entrance, raising his eyebrows, and Stiles quickly looked down. This dude did not look like the correct dude to antagonize in a fast food restaurant. </p><p>He pushed open the door and walked over to where the slave kid was still hunched against the steps. Without warning, he swung his boot hard into the kid’s ribs. The kid’s feet scrabbled beneath him in a fruitless attempt to curl up and protect himself, but he didn’t make a sound. Then the guy dropped the burger on the kid’s narrow chest, smirking, before heading back inside. </p><p>If Stiles felt sick before, now he felt like his stomach had spontaneously filled with ammonia.  </p><p>“That fucker costs us so much in food, we should get him off our hands now that the picking season is done,” the guy grunted as he approached his table. He didn’t even bother to keep his voice down. Nobody else seemed to care what was happening. </p><p>“Mmm, might be a factory that’ll take him. Or a construction crew, they’ve got a couple of slave crews in Reno, they’ll pay pretty good up front too…”</p><p>“Be nice to have the cash by the time we hit Vegas,” the first guy said. Then, “What the fuck are you staring at, boy?”</p><p>It was too late now for Stiles to drop his eyes. And wasn’t actually sure he was capable of that anyway. </p><p>Look, Stiles had been accused of making some rash decisions in the past. Impulsive, reckless, stupid… he’d been called all of that and worse. But the idea currently thrumming in his brain was by far the most foolish thing he’d ever come up with. </p><p>He stood up from his chair. </p><p>“How much do you want?”</p><p>Not the strongest opening negotiation, but Stiles was definitely not at his most “even-keeled bargain hunter” right now. He was more at his most “try not to get mauled by this biker gang while you buy a person,” which was a decidedly unfamiliar mindset. </p><p>The dudes exchanged glances, dark with unpleasant humor. Stiles almost lost his nerve. He turned back and saw the kid, now eating his burger, awkwardly, craning his head down to his shackled hands. He closed his eyes as he slowly chewed. He just looked so… weary. </p><p>“What do you want with a little brat like him, huh?” Scary Guy 1 asked, with a phlegmy chuckle. His leer spoke volumes as to what he thought Stiles might be up to. </p><p>“None of your business,” Stiles snapped. At least, he hoped it was a snap. Dear God, let it please not have been a squeak. </p><p>Scary Guy 2 looked uneasily at Stiles. </p><p>“He’s a manual labor slave, we lease him out for fruit picking and ditch digging, that kinda thing. He might look scrawny but he can work. But winter’s coming on, what do you think you’re gonna do with him?”</p><p>“Hey, if the kid wants to have some fun, who are we to stop him?” Scary Guy 1 said, thumping his buddy on the chest.</p><p>Scary Guy 2 rolled his eyes and looked at Stiles with distaste.</p><p>Wow, it really, really did not feel good to be judged by a guy who would chain up a kid outside of a McDonald’s. Even if those unspoken accusations were so, so incredibly off-base. </p><p>“1,000,” Scary Guy 1 said. </p><p>Okay, Stiles did not have that kind of cash on him. </p><p>“500?” he hazarded. He’d never actually haggled before, but he’d seen it done on TV. </p><p>And he’d definitely never haggled over a young guy he’d decidedly to impulsively buy because he looked tired and had been kind. </p><p>Scary Guy 1 let out a little hoot and shook his head. </p><p>“You have no idea what you’re doing, do you kid? 1,000 is goddamn giving him away. You should be asking what’s wrong with him. And the answer is nothing, I’m just tired of him and I’m tired of you. There’s an ATM by the bathrooms.”</p><p>Stiles opened and closed his mouth. </p><p>Scary Guy 2 laughed cruelly and started to clean up their trays. </p><p>“Well, I guess I will be glad to get the little shit off our hands,” he said to Scary Guy 1, completely ignoring Stiles. </p><p>Stiles walked towards the ATM, wondering vaguely if someone had hijacked his body. Surely, this wasn’t reality. </p><p>He came back with ten $100 bills. They were waiting. </p><p>“Deed of ownership and the rest of the gear is in the truck,” Scary Guy 1 said, jerking his head outside. </p><p>Stiles didn’t want to think what the rest of the gear was. </p><p>When they passed the boy on their way out, he looked up, alert and wide-eyed, as his owners and Stiles stepped over his legs. </p><p>“Be right back, buddy,” Stiles muttered, because he couldn’t stand treating the kid like an inanimate object during this transaction. </p><p>The kid just looked more confused. </p><p>The truck in question was an ancient wreck of Ford, with rust flaking off the bumpers. The gear was a complex set of chains and shackles, that made Stiles stagger under their weight when Scary Guy 1 tossed them at him. The Scary Guys snickered. He couldn’t imagine doing actual manual labor while wearing these. He was about to topple over in a parking lot just holding them. </p><p>“What’s his name?” Stiles said suddenly, because he realized he hadn’t actually asked that. </p><p>“Uhhhh…” Scary Guy 1 rifled through the folder of papers he’d just pulled out of the passenger seat. “Scott, I guess? Scott McCall.”</p><p>“You didn’t even know his name?” Stiles demanded. </p><p>Again, nobody ever accused Stiles Stilinski of overthinking before he spoke. </p><p>Scary Guy 1 glowered. He slammed the folder of documents against Stiles’ chest, and Stiles considered it a great feat of athleticism that he didn’t even stumble with the force of it. </p><p>“We done here?” Scary Guy 2 asked. He leaned against the bed of the pick-up truck, looking bored. “We got some rigging installed back here, but it’s too much work to pull it out. You’ll just have to figure out how to secure him in your vehicle.” He shrugged and headed towards the driver’s seat. </p><p>Stiles peered over the side of the pick-up bed. There were chains, even heavier than the ones he was carrying, embedded in the floor of the pick-up. They ended in scary-looking manacles. </p><p>Seriously, this was how they transported him? On the freeway? It looked miserable. </p><p>“Yep, no, I’m totally good to go, I’ll just head off now then…” Stiles stammered, backing away quickly from the barbaric coil of chains. </p><p>Scary Guy 2 was still watching him, looking entirely more amused than the situation warranted. “Forgetting something?” he said wryly, dangling a little key ring that glinted in the light. </p><p>Right. The keys. To the cuffs. That the kid - Scott - was in right now. </p><p>Stiles chuckled nervously and shuffled forward to grab the keys. For a minute he thought Scary Guy 1 was going to jerk them out of reach like a schoolyard bully, but he let them slide into Stiles’ hands. Then Scary Guy 1 hopped in the passenger seat, and the truck roared to life then barrelled out of the parking lot leaving nothing but a toxic cloud of diesel smoke and the world’s newest and least-prepared slave owner wondering what the hell he just got himself into.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Stiles really wished he’d had time to make it back to Scott before the truck barrelled away. He was probably feeling abandoned, or panicked, or freaking out that the assholes he was supposed to be leaving with had in fact just left without him. </p>
<p>So he was a bit surprised that by the time he staggered back, red faced and winded from all the chain-lugging, to the front of the restaurant, Scott was staring at him pretty calmly. </p>
<p>He was also pretty surprised when it was Scott who spoke first. </p>
<p>“So you’re my new owner?” he asked, his voice detached and flat. </p>
<p>“Uh, yep, yep that’s me. Um. I’m Stiles.” He was halfway to reaching out a hand to shake when he realized that Scott’s hands were still in shackles. He quickly stopped and slapped his hand on his knee instead, like an absolute idiot. If Scott noticed, he didn’t say anything. </p>
<p>“So uh yeah. Let’s get out of here, I guess.” Stiles reached back to grab his car keys out of his backpack and… fuck, he was not wearing his backpack. He squinted through the glass and sure, enough, there was his battered old college backpack, right next his abandoned burger and right where he’d left it when he’d rushed out of the building. </p>
<p>“Um just a sec,” he muttered, dropping the chains in a noisy heap and dashing back inside to grab his bag. </p>
<p>Jesus, Scott must think he’s a moron. He would not be very wrong. </p>
<p>After a quick rustle to make sure everything was still in his backpack (it was, thank God), he grabbed the bag and his uneaten food and hustled back outside. </p>
<p>He took out his keys, for real this time, and crumpled up his food bag and made to throw it in the trash can outside the doors. </p>
<p>Scott made a sudden movement, his eyes on the food about to go into the garbage.</p>
<p>“Oh, shit. Did you want this?”</p>
<p>Scott looked at him blankly and suddenly Stiles was panicking. Was that super rude? Offering him his unwanted leftovers? He’d taken a bite out of it for Christ sake, why would Scott want his slobbery cold burger? He was about to babble an apology when Scott just said “Yes.” </p>
<p>A little too loudly and a little too quickly.</p>
<p>“Cool, yeah I’m not really hungry. Too much caffeine,” Stiles said. He fumbled with the key that was still in his hand – the key to the shackles – and approached Scott slowly. </p>
<p>Scott held still as Stiles twisted the key. The lock was a little stiff, but it eventually popped and Stiles quickly slid off the cuffs. </p>
<p>Scott lowered his hands warily and Stiles’s eyes involuntarily flicked to the reddened skin. He half-expected Scott to massage his wrists like they did in the movies, but Scott just sat there, staring at him. At last, when Stiles didn’t move (because what was he supposed to be doing?!) Scott started to haul himself to his feet. He got half way up before stopping and exhaling heavily, leaning on the railing a little for support. </p>
<p>“You okay?” asked Stiles immediately, taking a step closer before stopping himself. He didn’t know if Scott would want to be touched, so he just hovered awkwardly about a foot away. </p>
<p>“Just dizzy,” Scott said, knuckles white on the railing. He took a deep breath and opened his eyes. “I’m fine.”</p>
<p>“Cool, cool, well, yeah, hamburger!” Stiles said, shoving burger into Scott’s hands. It was a sad, limp little foil packet… Stiles may or may not have accidentally clenched his fists and crushed it into a ketchupy pulp. </p>
<p>“Um, my jeep is over there in that gas station parking lot, if you wanna come,” Stiles said, jerking his head to where he was parked. </p>
<p>Scott only had eyes for the food in his hand, and he was already unwrapping the burger as he nodded and fell into step behind Stiles. </p>
<p>Stiles didn’t look behind him as he marched to his Jeep. If Scott wanted to run… well, it would make Stiles’ life a lot easier. He wondered if he was a bad person for wishing that Scott would just take off. Then he could just drive away and shake off the day like a bad dream… but Scott had no money, no social security number, no education, and there were a lot of seedy people out there. It would be pretty cruel to just turn him out into the desert with a twenty dollar bill and a “good luck.”</p>
<p>But Scott was still there when Stiles reached his Jeep and opened the back seat to throw all of the fucking chains on the floor. Who knew what he was going to do with them. Maybe Danny wanted them for an art installation or something. He had exactly one friend he was still in touch with from college, namely because Danny was a studio art major with a great sense of humor and an actual human soul, as opposed to those douchey business bros who had cut him off without a second thought after his dad died.</p>
<p>Stiles looked up to find that Scott had slipped in the other side of the back seat, instead of the passenger seat. Okay, well if he was more comfortable that way, that was totally fine. He gave Scott what he hoped was a chill, encouraging smile.</p>
<p>“You need anything before we take off, dude? It’s kind of a long drive.”</p>
<p>Scott just stared at him. He was sitting kind of weirdly, with his arms rigidly against his sides and his wrists flat against the seat.</p>
<p>“Your arms okay?” Stiles asked, frowning at them. He had been chained up a long time…</p>
<p>“You aren’t gonna chain me in?” Scott asked, looking at him almost skeptically. </p>
<p>“Sorry, what?”</p>
<p>Scott paused. “Those ones,” he said, nodding to a short length of chain beside him that ended in a flat metal buckle. “They attach to the seat belt.”</p>
<p>“Okay. Wow, what the fuck. I am definitely not going to chain you in.” He slammed the door and leaned against it, breathing hard. How had the world gotten so fucked up?</p>
<p>When he opened the driver’s side of the door and looked at Scott in his rearview mirror, the kid had relaxed his arms but was staring at him so intensely that Stiles thought it was remotely possible he might burst into flames. </p>
<p>Stiles started the Jeep and drove off with perhaps a little excess speed. The more distance he put between himself and this godforsaken fucking fast food restaurant, the better. </p>
<p>They’d gone fifteen miles without a word when it occurred to Stiles that Scott might have some follow-up questions. </p>
<p>It also occurred to him that he probably had zero answers, but still. The dude had a right to ask whatever he wanted.</p>
<p>“How are you doing?” Stiles started, because that was the easiest entry into small talk he could think of. Also, he had some concerns about Scott’s general well-being after spending just five minutes with Scary Guys 1 and 2. </p>
<p>“I’m okay,” Scott said. The silence stretched for a beat. “Do you have any water?</p>
<p>“Oh yeah, um there should be a bottle on the floor,” Stiles said, glancing back. </p>
<p>Stiles always kept extra food and water in his car for emergencies. This was never the emergency that he pictured. </p>
<p>Scott dug around for the water bottle, then took a long drink, letting his head hit the back of the seat when he was done. Stiles suddenly remembered that Scott was exhausted, enough so that he’d been trying to sleep while stretched over a flight of concrete stairs. </p>
<p>“Hey, if you wanna grab some sleep, that’s fine,” Stiles offered. Scott, as was apparently his default mode, just stared at Stiles. It was getting old, honestly. </p>
<p>“So do you like, own land?” Scott said, squinting at him a little bit. </p>
<p>Stiles barked out a laugh. “Nah, I just rent my apartment. It’s pretty shitty, actually. Why?”</p>
<p>Scott frowned. “You don’t have an orchard? Or a farm or ranch?”</p>
<p>“No dude, why…” Stiles broke off. Oh. Scott wanted to know where he’d be working. And Stiles didn’t know how to say ‘I haven’t figured that out yet, please go to sleep so I can panic in peace and maybe figure out a plan.’</p>
<p>Scott seemed to sense his distress. </p>
<p>“How much did you pay for me?” he asked, and Stiles almost swerved off the road. </p>
<p>“What?” he yelped. </p>
<p>“How much?” Scott pressed, and Stiles felt more than a little sick. This was so wrong. </p>
<p>“Ummm, 1,000?” he said. </p>
<p>Of all things, Scott laughed. The sound was so unexpected that Stiles jumped and then spent a lot longer than was strictly safe staring at the rearview mirror. Had he just bought an unhinged person?</p>
<p>“You got screwed. They got me for $600 bucks and a line of cocaine. And I’m way scrawnier now than I was then.”</p>
<p>Oh, fuck those guys. Stiles knew he should have stood his ground. </p>
<p>“Those two were the biggest dickheads I have ever met, but they were also the scariest so I didn’t argue with them too much,” Stiles muttered. Scott still looked wryly amused. “How long were you with them?” </p>
<p>“Just the season,” Scott said. “The summer,” he clarified, when he saw Stiles’ blank expression. </p>
<p>“And what were you doing before that?” Stiles asked. Rapport. They were building rapport.</p>
<p>“Mostly agriculture and construction, but some dishwashing and shit like that in the winters,” Scott said. He was back to the intense staring thing. “I’m not trained for anything else, you know that right?” There was an odd edge to his voice.</p>
<p>“Oh yeah, totally,” Stiles said, with an airy wave that would hopefully convince the kid he knew what he was doing. Stiles really, really needed to call Danny. He would know what to do. </p>
<p>The silence thickened into something distinctly uncomfortable. </p>
<p>“We’re passing into California,” Stiles said, about seventy miles later. He realized too late that Scott had finally drifted into a doze in the backseat, and that his inane comment had woken up. Scott peered blearily outside and nodded shortly at the flash of the blue sign welcoming them to Stiles’ home state. </p>
<p>Stiles’ home state in which slavery was illegal. </p>
<p>“Shit,” Stiles groaned. </p>
<p>“What?” Scott was instantly alert. </p>
<p>“Um. I was just thinking. About how slavery is illegal in California. And how I am driving there. With a slave. And I’m probably gonna get pulled over and go to jail forever.”</p>
<p>Well, so much for holding his cards close to his chest. </p>
<p>Because the truth was Stiles may have occasionally worn a leather jacket in college and sometimes eaten special brownies in Danny’s basement, but deep down he was still a cop’s kid, with a perhaps overly healthy respect for rules and regulations. </p>
<p>Scott made a sound, that if Stiles was not mistaken, was a snort. </p>
<p>“Are you serious right now?”</p>
<p>Stiles was too busy suppressing his anxiety to answer. Scott gave Stiles a long look and apparently decided that he was, in fact, serious. </p>
<p>“I was born and raised in California. Nobody would give a shit if you paraded me out in the street.” </p>
<p>“But it’s illegal here,” Stiles repeated. He regretted it as soon as he saw Scott’s incredulous expression in the rearview mirror. </p>
<p>Then Scott huffed out a bitter laugh, his jaw twisted as he looked out the window.</p>
<p>“Sure it is,” he muttered.</p>
<p>Stiles felt a sick swooping in his gut. He let the silence go for longer than he should have, because he had absolutely no idea what to say. </p>
<p>When he looked back, Scott was asleep again. </p>
<p>Texting and driving was very dangerous. Stiles knew this. But his hands still itched for his iPhone. He drove mile after mile of snaking, dusty desert, and when he finally arrived at sleepy town with a single stop light he gratefully slowed down - gradually so as not to wake his passenger - and did a quick Google search. </p>
<p>A quick incognito browser Google search. </p>
<p>The light turned green too quickly, and a horn beeped behind Stiles, so grumbling he let the phone drop and started forward again. </p>
<p>But his mind kept returning to the first search result for ‘how to help slave california.’</p>
<p>
  <i>The Beacon Hills Center for Young Adult Slave Rehabilitation and Advancement. </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>Executive Director, Derek Hale</i>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Hope you all enjoy reading this as much as I enjoy writing it. Please let me know what you think!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>By the time Stiles swung into his apartment’s alley parking space, he had roughly three fourths of a plan and a killer headache. </p>
<p>Step one involved a hurried text to Danny, which he shot off as soon as the car was in park. He felt his phone buzzing almost instantly with what was probably a shitload of panicked follow-up questions, but he slid the phone in his pocket without looking. If he knew Danny, he’d be here in five minutes no matter what. </p>
<p>Step two involved waking up Scott. </p>
<p>“Uh, hey buddy,” Stiles said, turning around to face the backseat. Scott stirred at his voice, then blinked his eyes open and squinted outside. He looked so much like a lost little kid that Stiles’ stomach twisted... he would have to check the birth date on the paperwork when he went inside. He really hoped Scott wasn’t an actual fucking teenager. </p>
<p>“We made it. Home, sweet home. It’s not much, but it’s home. Home is where the heart is. Uhh, any other cliches I missed?”</p>
<p>Scott didn’t smile, but he gave a little twitch that might have been a very small eye roll. Stiles would take it. </p>
<p>“I’m gonna leave this shit here, if that’s okay with you,” Stiles said, eyeing the chains with venom. “So we can just head up?”</p>
<p>Scott nodded his understanding, apparently reverting back to selective muteness. </p>
<p>Stiles started up the stairs to his apartment, fumbling for his house key. He heard Scott’s steps ghosting behind him. He opened the door, forcing it a little since the door frame had a habit of sticking on warm, humid nights like this one.</p>
<p>It was exactly like he left it: crusty dishes in the sink, a couch overflowing with blankets, and an embarrassingly bad smell coming from the kitchen trash. </p>
<p>So, not the world’s best first impression. But Scott didn’t react, just stepped over the threshold and looked around without expression. </p>
<p>Stiles cleared his throat. “Hey, so um, you hungry? I know it’s late, but I actually have a buddy coming over, I hope that’s okay...” </p>
<p>“Who?” Scott asked. His voice was rough with sleep and thick with suspicion. </p>
<p>“Just my college friend, Danny. He’s a good guy. I mean, he’s actually one of the best guys. He’s like… my go to. My emergency contact. Ya know?”</p>
<p>Scott shrugged. “Can I use the bathroom in here?” he asked in a dull monotone. </p>
<p>“Yeah, totally!” Stiles scrambled out of his way and pointed at the bathroom door, praying to whatever god was fucking with his life that he didn’t leave a pair of boxers on the floor. </p>
<p>Scott headed towards the door, shooting a glance at Stiles out of the corner of his eye. Stiles smiled in the least creepy way he possibly could. Which honestly, probably was coming off as super creepy. <br/>Fuck. Okay. Food. He could handle food. </p>
<p>There was a pre-made packaged mac n’ cheese in his freezer, as a direct result of Stiles being an extremely lazy twenty-three-year-old. He could stick it in the oven, top it with some hot sauce, and hopefully get enough calories in the kid to get him to stop the swaying. </p>
<p>While the oven was preheating, he slid over the file folder that contained the life details of the human being he had just purchased in a parking lot. Forcing down a swell of nausea, he opened it. </p>
<p>It was ridiculously sparse. He learned that Scott M. McCall was also twenty-three, just a few months younger than him. He had a mother listed, but no father. There was a horrifically short list of attributes: “Able-bodied, unskilled, no significant compliance issues reported.”</p>
<p>It was like a description for a dog. Stiles slammed the folder shut and shoved it under a pile of unopened mail.</p>
<p>“Fuck you,” he hissed to the folder’s corner, peaking out under an unpaid bill. “You don’t know shit.”</p>
<p>At that moment there was a veritable attack of Stiles’ doorbell, along with a string of extremely colorful muffled expletives. </p>
<p>Stiles opened the door to a man with mussed-up hair, smudged eyeliner, and an expression of the purest form of rage. </p>
<p>“You bought a slave?” bellowed Danny Mahealani, shoving past Stiles. “What the actual fuck is wrong with you, you know how fucked up this shit is…”</p>
<p>“I know,” Stiles hissed, side-stepping as his best friend barged through the door. “And can you please stop yelling, otherwise you will traumatize Scott and also I will throw up on you, and I would really prefer if neither of those things happened right now.”</p>
<p>Danny opened his mouth but then paused, taking a good look at Stiles. And if Stiles looked even half as shit as he felt, the sight probably wasn’t pretty. </p>
<p>He glowered. “I know you’ve been feeling down lately man, but this really, really, really wasn’t the fucking answer.”</p>
<p>“I didn’t do it for me!” Stiles yelled. “I did it because these scary guys had him all chained up and they weren’t feeding him and he looked really tired and he was nice to a little girl!”</p>
<p>A voice cleared behind him. Scott was apparently out of the bathroom. Great. This was going just peachy. </p>
<p>“Mac and cheese!” he declared a tad manically, and marched over to shove the little plastic dish in the oven. </p>
<p>Scott and Danny were staring at each other from across the room. </p>
<p>“Scott, meet Danny. He’s the best friend, and I promise he normally doesn’t yell this much. Danny, meet Scott. He’s… actually always this quiet as far as I know, which is not very much because I’ve known him for five hours.”</p>
<p>“Hi Scott,” Danny said, and Stiles recognized the warm, authoritative ‘social worker’ voice that Danny put on when volunteering at clinics and shelters and all of the other good he was constantly doing in the world. “I’m glad to meet you.”</p>
<p>Scott nodded shortly, his eyes narrowed. </p>
<p>“Scott, I want you to know that you’re safe here. We’re going to try to get you the help you need.” Danny walked towards Scott very slowly, hands casually raised in a non threatening stance. He was radiating such calm that Stiles could practically feel the tension in the room melting. </p>
<p>“I see that you have some water,” Danny said, nodding towards the crumpled plastic bottle still clutched in Scott’s hand. “It looks like Stiles is making some food. Is there anything else that would make you comfortable right now?”</p>
<p>Scott shrugged and made steady eye contact with Danny. </p>
<p>“Where will I be sleeping tonight?” The question was asked in a flat, expressionless voice, but Stiles didn’t miss the way Scott’s eyes jumped towards him when he spoke. </p>
<p>“You can sleep on the sofa in the living room. It’s not too uncomfortable, I’ve slept on it many nights,” Danny said without missing a beat. “Will that be okay?”</p>
<p>Stiles hadn’t even considered sleeping arrangements. Or that Scott would be worried about them. For utterly horrifying reasons. Jesus, he was so in over his head.</p>
<p>Scott nodded, seeming to relax a minute amount.</p>
<p>“Okay, sounds like a plan then,” Danny continued. “I have one more thing to ask you. I have some EMT training. Would it be okay if I took a look at you? I want to make sure you don’t have any serious physical injuries that we need to take care of before the morning.”</p>
<p>“I’m okay,” Scott said blankly. </p>
<p>“I’m glad that you feel okay, but I would still feel better if I could take a look at you and just make sure.”</p>
<p>Scott paused, frowning slightly. Then he glanced at Stiles.</p>
<p>“Go for it, dude,” said Stiles weakly. “He’s a great first aid-er. Once I cut open my knee hiking in the mountains and stopped the bleeding with a flower.”</p>
<p>“It was yarrow,” said Danny, rolling his eyes. “Scott, I’d like to ask Stiles to step into another room for this. Is that okay?”</p>
<p>Scott hesitated and nodded, and Stiles hastily scurried into his bedroom to give them some space. He could clearly hear the low voices of the two guys in the other room, so he tried to make as much noise as humanly possible while he rummaged through his closet for clothes that might fit Scott. They were roughly the same size, and it took Stiles very little time to compile a jumble of jeans, sweats, and t-shirts that he thought would work on Scott’s frame. </p>
<p>He could still hear low voices in the other room so he pulled out his phone, looking for something to distract himself with. He’d always known his walls were paper thin, but he lived alone. Of course he never fully realized how difficult it might be to give some poor dude privacy when going through an invasive medical exam in his living room. </p>
<p>The browser on his phone was still open to the homepage of the Beacon Hills slave rehab place. He clicked on the mission statement. It maintained that lycanthropy was a genetic abnormality, not a danger or a curse. There were testimonials of former slaves who had gone through the program and were now employed and fully functioning members of society. There was a glowing essay written by an important donor, someone named Lydia Martin. And then the ‘Meet the Staff’ section. The photo at the top was of a man with a slight frown, glaring down the camera in a way that was slightly too terrifying to be professional. His bio identified him as Executive Director Derek Hale, former enslaved werewolf, abolition advocate, and pioneer in slave advancement. </p>
<p>Stiles rubbed his temple, where a vicious headache was now brewing. Okay, it seemed like Beacon Hills really was the kind of place they needed to get Scott some help. He saved the address in his contacts… it was only twenty miles away.</p>
<p>Somewhere in the kitchen, the timer dinged. The mac and cheese was done. Stiles paced for a few minutes, then driven by the torturous thought of burnt food, hesitantly creaked open his bedroom door. </p>
<p>He stifled a yelp. Danny was right outside. How had the man managed to sneak up on him in a house with insulation like tissue paper? </p>
<p>“I’m done with Scott,” said Danny, thrusting a bowl of perfectly melty cheesy pasta into his hands. He’d even put on the right amount of hot sauce. “He’s all set up on the couch with his food. He looked like he was about to pass out on his feet, he’s probably in REM state by now.”</p>
<p>“Thanks,” said Stiles, accepting the food meekly and collapsing on his bed. “How much do I owe you for your superhero services?”</p>
<p>Danny just scoffed and pounced on the bed next to Stiles. </p>
<p>“How is… I mean is he okay? Well not okay, I know he’s not, but like…”</p>
<p>Danny interrupted his babbling by lobbing a pillow at him.</p>
<p>“He’s not a current risk to himself or others. He’s dehydrated, malnourished, and pretty damn beat up. He’s actually pretty lucid, not all submissive or zoned out like some of the guys I work with. But damn, Stilinski. He needs way more help that I can give him.”</p>
<p>“Um, I found this place?” Stiles said, passing his phone. “I was thinking we could make an appointment tomorrow.”</p>
<p>Danny grunted and scrolled through the webpage. “Yeah, this place is legit. They work with the clinic on some out-patient programs for freed wolves. Hale is great, he doesn’t take any shit.”</p>
<p>“That’s… good,” Stiles said. “So will you go with us tomorrow?”</p>
<p>Danny tossed the phone on the bed and gave Stiles a searching look.</p>
<p>“I have work,” he said shortly. “Scott is stable. There’s no reason you can’t handle this yourself.”</p>
<p>“Yeah,” said Stiles, instead of several other things he wanted to say, like ‘But that Derek guy looks scary’ and ‘I just wish I could call my dad and ask what to do’ and ‘I’m barely keeping my head above water, how am I supposed to keep someone else afloat too?’</p>
<p>Danny must have heard those things anyway, because he scooched off the bed and gave Stiles a long hug before standing up. </p>
<p>“You’re a good dude,” Danny said, looking down at Stiles with an exhausted kind of fondness. “You got this. I’m proud of you, bro. I think you probably did the right thing.”</p>
<p>“Thanks,” Stiles. He lay back on his bed and didn’t move, not when he heard the front door close or when Danny’s car door slammed and the sound of the engine dwindled off to the night. He lay awake with his swirling thoughts for a long time. After a while he heard the couch creak as Scott shifted in his sleep. </p>
<p>It was oddly comforting to think that, however fucked the circumstances were, for the first time in years he wasn’t alone in his tiny apartment. </p>
<p>And, more importantly, for the first time in years, a twenty-three-year-old man named Scott McCall was safe from harm.</p>
<p>Stiles drifted off, lulled to sleep by the sound of Scott’s soft, even breathing coming from down the hall.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I know Danny is kind of OOC, but it's how I picture him after he went to college and got confident and cool :)</p>
<p>Hope y'all enjoy! I welcome all sorts of feedback, suggestions, comment section convos &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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